Like Father Like Son

The first sliver of dawn, a bruised purple, bled across the Arabian Sea, painting the vast expanse of our Mumbai penthouse in shades of slumber. My alarm, a gentle chime, was a whisper against the city’s waking hum. Six o’clock. Sunday. My day.
I stretched, a languid arch, the silk of my baby doll nighty rustling against my skin. It was a delicate thing, pale rose with lace trim, a stark contrast to the crisp, starched shirts I wore to the office during the week. Weekdays were a blur of spreadsheets and power suits, a necessary evil to fund this opulent life. Evenings, I got a few precious hours. A simple saree, a dash of kohl, a quick sweep of sindoor. Just enough to feel like myself while I whipped up dinner or tidied the living room. But Sundays? Sundays were a symphony.
My fingers, already adorned with a delicate gold ring on each, traced the cool metal of the *mangalsutra* around my neck, a tiny black-beaded chain with its diamond pendant, a symbol of my devotion to Priya, even in this guise. My *jhumka* earrings, small and tinkling, brushed my shoulders as I rose, the tiny bells whispering secrets. A delicate gold nose ring, no larger than a dewdrop, caught the nascent light. My *bindi*, a small red dot, centered perfectly on my brow. And the *sindoor*, a faint vermillion line in the part of my hair, a promise whispered to the universe.
The house was quiet, save for the distant hum of the AC. Priya was still asleep, cocooned in our king-sized bed, a queen in her slumber. I tiptoed to the vanity, a grand affair of polished rosewood and sparkling mirrors. My initial makeup was always light, a whisper of foundation, a touch of mascara, a hint of rose blush. Just enough to feel presentable for my pre-dawn rituals. My bangles, a dozen or so slender gold and glass bracelets, chimed softly as I moved, a gentle music that always made my heart swell. And my anklets, delicate silver chains with tiny bells, jingled with every step, a constant reminder of the feminine presence I embodied.
My first stop was the kitchen, a gleaming expanse of chrome and marble. The maids, bless their efficient hearts, left everything spotless on Saturday nights. But spotless wasn’t *my* spotless. I ran my gloved finger along the pristine counter. *Tsk*. A microscopic smudge near the toaster. I hummed, a low, contented sound, as I grabbed a cloth and polished it until it shone. The faint clinking of my anklets and bangles was my soundtrack. I loved this. I lived for this.
I found frivolous mistakes everywhere. A cushion slightly askew in the living room. A dust mote, invisible to the naked eye, on the edge of a bookshelf. The maids were good, exceptional even, but they lacked my… *passion*. They didn’t understand the true art of a maintained home. They didn’t understand the joy of the *jingle* as I bent to adjust a rug, the gentle *swish* of my nighty as I straightened a painting. I’d “fix” them all morning, a silent ballet of domesticity, my jewelry a constant, joyful accompaniment.
By seven, the sun was a fiery orb over the sea. Time for the full transformation. I brewed a strong cup of masala chai for myself, the fragrant steam warming my face. Then, I retreated to my dressing room, a sanctuary of silk, lace, and polished gold. This was where Rahul, the corporate executive, truly melted away, leaving only Radha, the devoted housewife.
I carefully removed my nighty, the delicate fabric falling to the floor. From a specially climate-controlled wardrobe, I selected today’s ensemble: a deep emerald green *Kanjeevaram* saree, its border a symphony of gold zari embroidery, depicting peacocks and lotus flowers. It weighed a ton, rich with tradition and artistry. Beneath it, a matching emerald green silk petticoat and an embroidered blouse, its short sleeves edged with tiny pearls.
The process began. First, the breast forms. Large, silicone wonders, they added a generous curve to my chest, filling out the blouse perfectly. Then, the makeup. This was an art form, a ritual I savored. I started with a rich, creamy foundation, building up layers until my skin was a flawless canvas. Contouring followed, sculpting my cheeks, defining my jawline. My eyes were next. A dark kohl liner, drawn precisely, winged out at the corners. Then, a rich emerald green eyeshadow, blended meticulously, fading into gold at the brow bone. Finally, a thick coat of mascara, making my lashes impossibly long and curled. My eyebrows, already shaped, were darkened slightly with a brow pencil.
My lips, I outlined with a deep berry liner, then filled them with a matching matte lipstick, a shade that spoke of luxury and quiet confidence. A generous sweep of rosy blush across my cheekbones, blending seamlessly.
Now, the jewelry. This was the crescendo. First, the *mangalsutra*, the heavy, elaborate version, its gold chain thick, its diamond pendant sparkling like a galaxy. Then, necklaces. A choker of intricate gold filigree, studded with rubies, sat high on my throat. Below it, a longer, multi-strand pearl necklace, its luster catching the light. And finally, a *haar*, a long, heavy gold chain with a large, ornate pendant that rested just above my navel.
My ears, already pierced in multiple places, were next. The tiny *jhumkas* were replaced by colossal ones, gold and emerald green, dangling almost to my shoulders, their bells *jingle-jangle-jingling* with every tilt of my head. They were heavy, pulling slightly on my earlobes, a sensation I adored. My nose, too, received its transformation. The small nose ring was replaced by a large, ornate gold *nath*, a circular ring studded with pearls, that hooked behind my ear. And in my other nostril, a smaller, but still prominent, diamond stud.
My arms, already adorned with the delicate rings, now bore the weight of bangles. Not just a dozen, but dozens. Thick gold bangles, thin gold bangles, glass bangles in emerald green and gold, all stacked high on both wrists, from just above my elbow almost to my knuckles. They clinked and clanked with every movement, a constant, joyful noise. My fingers, already ringed, received more. Large, ornate rings, some with emeralds, some with diamonds, one for each finger, even my thumbs.
My feet, too, were bedecked. Heavy silver anklets, intricately carved, their bells larger, louder, than the morning ones, wrapped around my ankles. And on each toe, a delicate silver toe ring, some plain, some with tiny flowers.
The wig was next. A long, lustrous black wig, styled in a traditional Indian braid, adorned with fresh jasmine flowers woven into its length. It added a regal touch, a waterfall of dark hair flowing down my back.
Finally, the *bindi* and *sindoor*. My small red dot was replaced by a large, designer *bindi*, shaped like a teardrop, encrusted with tiny emerald and gold beads, perfectly matching my saree. And the *sindoor*—oh, the *sindoor*—a thick, vibrant streak of vermillion, drawn with careful precision, a bold declaration of my married status, my identity.
The high heels were the last touch. Five-inch stilettos, emerald green, of course, with gold accents. They added inches to my height, a graceful arch to my foot, and a delicate sway to my walk. I loved the way they made my calves ache in the most delightful way, the way they amplified the *click-clack* of my steps, announcing my presence before I even entered a room.
I stood before the mirror, a vision. Rahul, the man, was gone. Radha, the opulent, devoted housewife, gazed back, every detail perfect, every piece of jewelry shimmering, every curve accentuated. I felt powerful, beautiful, utterly myself.
I glided out of my dressing room, the *swish-swish* of my saree, the *clink-clank* of my bangles, the *jingle-jangle* of my anklets, and the *click-clack* of my heels echoing through the silent penthouse. My world, my domain.
Priya was stirring, a soft groan escaping her lips. I approached the bed, my steps light despite the heels.
“Good morning, my queen,” I murmured, my voice soft, almost a purr. I gently touched her feet, a gesture of profound respect and devotion. Her feet, unadorned, were soft beneath my touch.
She blinked, her eyes fluttering open. A slow smile spread across her face as she took me in. “Radha, my love. You look… divine.” Her voice was still thick with sleep, but her eyes held a spark of amusement, of affection. She loved this. She loved *me* like this. It gave her comfort, allowed her to be truly pampered.
“Breakfast, my lady?” I asked, already moving towards the kitchen.
“Coffee, first. Strong. Then perhaps some *aloo paratha*?” she said, stretching languidly.
“As you wish.”
The kitchen became my stage. The *clink-clank* of bangles accompanied the rhythmic chopping of potatoes for the *aloo paratha* filling. The *jingle-jangle* of anklets danced as I kneaded the dough, my hands a blur of motion. The *swish* of my saree brushed against the counter as I turned to grab spices. The aroma of sizzling butter, cumin, and potatoes filled the air, mingling with the heady scent of my jasmine flowers.
I served Priya her coffee in a delicate porcelain cup, then brought out a steaming plate of *aloo paratha* with fresh yogurt and pickle. She ate slowly, savoring each bite, while I hovered, refilling her cup, ensuring her every need was met.
“This is delicious, Radha,” she said, wiping her lips with a napkin. “You truly are a goddess in the kitchen.”
“Only for you, my love,” I replied, my chest swelling with pride.
After breakfast, the chores continued. The dishes were washed by hand, the warm water a soothing caress on my bejeweled fingers. I hummed a classical tune, my bangles chiming in rhythm with the melody. The penthouse, despite its vastness, felt intimate under my care. I dusted every surface, the soft cloth gliding over polished wood, glass, and intricate carvings. The vacuum cleaner hummed, a low drone, as I pushed it across the plush carpets, my high heels sinking slightly, then rising with each step. The laundry, a mountain of silk and cotton, was sorted, washed, and then meticulously ironed, each crease pressed to perfection.
Priya, meanwhile, lounged in the living room, reading a fashion magazine, occasionally offering a comment or a soft laugh. Her attire was simple, comfortable: a cotton kurta and leggings, her hair tied in a loose bun, no makeup, no jewelry beyond her wedding band. The contrast between us was stark, a visual representation of our roles. She, the serene queen, I, her devoted, opulent servant.
“My feet are a little tired from all the walking yesterday,” Priya mused, flipping a page in her magazine.
“Of course, my love,” I said instantly, abandoning the ironing. I retrieved a basin of warm water infused with rose petals and essential oils. I knelt at her feet, the luxurious fabric of my saree fanning out around me. My bangles clinked softly as I gently massaged her tired feet, the warm water soothing her soles. Then, I moved to her shoulders, my fingers kneading away the knots, and finally, a gentle scalp massage, her soft sighs of contentment a balm to my soul.
The afternoon passed in this blissful rhythm. Lunch was a light affair, served with the same meticulous care. I tidied, cleaned, polished, always moving, always serving. The sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the living room.
Then, the doorbell chimed. A sharp, unexpected sound. My heart gave a little flutter. Priya wasn’t expecting anyone.
“Who could that be?” Priya asked, sitting up, a slight frown on her face.
I walked to the door, my heels *click-clacking* on the marble, my bangles announcing my approach. I opened the door, a polite smile on my heavily made-up face.
And then I froze.
My parents stood on the threshold. My mother, Sanjana, in a simple cotton saree, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and delight. And my father, Rajesh, looking rather flustered in his casual shirt and trousers, a small suitcase in hand.
“Rahul!” my mother exclaimed, her voice a joyful shriek. “Surprise!”
My jaw dropped. I was dressed in full regalia. My magnificent saree, my towering heels, my pounds of jewelry, my elaborate makeup, my wig, my bindi, my sindoor. All of it. Right here. Right now. In front of my parents.
A wave of heat flooded my face, a blush that burned beneath my carefully applied foundation. I felt a sudden, irrational urge to bolt, to hide.
Priya, sensing my shock, walked up behind me, her hand resting gently on my arm. “Mom, Dad! Come in, come in!” she said warmly, her voice calm, utterly unperturbed.
My mother stepped inside, her eyes sweeping over me, a soft smile on her lips. “Rahul, my dear. You look… stunning.”
My father, Rajesh, looked at me, then at Priya, then back at me, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. He cleared his throat.
“Surprise, indeed,” Priya chuckled, squeezing my arm. “Rahul, I hope you don’t mind. I thought it was time. I told them everything. And I even shared some pictures.”
My head snapped towards Priya. “You… you did what?” My voice was a strangled whisper.
“Of course, darling. They’re your parents. They deserve to know. And they were so excited to meet Radha,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
My mother reached out, gently touching a cascade of my bangles. “It’s beautiful, beta. Truly. We’re so proud of you, for finding your happiness.”
My father, Rajesh, still hadn’t said a word. He just stared at me, a peculiar intensity in his gaze.
“Dad?” I ventured, a tremor in my voice.
He finally spoke, his voice gruff, but with an underlying tremor. “You… you have a lot of sarees, son?”
I blinked. “Yes, Dad. Quite a few.”
Priya, ever the conductor of our lives, stepped forward. “Actually, Dad, Rahul has an incredible collection. And you know what?” She turned to me, her eyes twinkling. “Mom told me something quite interesting on the phone last week. Didn’t you, Mom?”
My mother, Sanjana, giggled, a sound I hadn’t heard from her in years. “Well, yes. It’s a bit of a family secret, darling. But since you two are so open…” She paused, looking at Rajesh.
My father’s face, usually stoic, was now a fascinating mix of embarrassment and something else… longing?
“Your father, Rahul,” Sanjana continued, her voice softer now, “he also… enjoys wearing sarees. And jewelry. And makeup.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My father. Rajesh. The man who taught me to tie a tie, to change a tire, to stand tall and be a man. He was… a crossdresser?
I stared at him, my mind reeling. The pieces clicked into place. His occasional odd questions about my “hobbies.” The way he’d sometimes look at my mother’s jewelry box. It made a strange, beautiful sense.
Rajesh finally met my gaze, a shy, almost hopeful look in his eyes. “It’s… it’s true, beta. Your mother knows. She’s always been very understanding.”
Priya clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Rahul, why don’t you show your father your collection? And help him find the perfect saree for tonight? We’ll just relax here.” She winked at me.
My shock slowly morphed into a giddy excitement. My father. A fellow traveler on this path.
“Come, Dad,” I said, my voice gaining strength, my heels *click-clacking* with renewed purpose. “My dressing room is this way.”
Rajesh followed me, his steps hesitant at first, then quickening with an eager anticipation. As I opened the doors to my sanctuary, revealing the rows of opulent sarees, the sparkling cases of jewelry, the array of makeup, his eyes widened.
“It’s… it’s magnificent, beta,” he breathed, running a hand over a silk drape.
“Do you have breast forms, Dad? Wigs? Heels?” I asked, my questions tumbling out.
He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. “Yes, yes. Though my collection isn’t quite as… extensive. And the heels… I’m not very comfortable in them, to be honest.”
“I can teach you,” I offered, a wave of protectiveness washing over me. “I’m quite proficient in them.”
We spent the next hour in a joyous whirlwind of silk and sparkle. I pulled out sarees, explaining their weaves, their significance. He gravitated towards a rich royal blue *Banarasi* with silver zari work, its peacock motifs shimmering. I helped him select a matching petticoat and blouse, then guided him through my vast collection of jewelry. He chose heavy silver anklets, a delicate silver waist chain, large silver *jhumkas*, and several silver bangles. For his neck, a simple pearl necklace and a thick silver chain. His makeup, I suggested, should be subtle for his first public appearance as Radha’s fellow goddess. A light foundation, kohl, and a touch of rose lipstick. For his hair, a shorter, neatly styled black wig, and a delicate red *bindi* with a thin line of *sindoor*.
“You go on, Dad,” I said, once we had gathered everything. “I’ll get dinner started. Take your time. Enjoy the transformation.”
He nodded, a shy smile on his face, and disappeared into a guest bedroom.
I returned to the kitchen, a hum of contentment bubbling within me. The *clink-clank* of my bangles, the *jingle-jangle* of my anklets, the *swish* of my saree, and the *click-clack* of my heels filled the grand space as I began preparing a lavish dinner. Lamb *rogan josh*, butter naan, *dal makhani*, and saffron rice. The aromas soon filled the penthouse.
Priya and Sanjana were chatting animatedly in the living room, their voices a soft murmur.
“I’m so glad you told me, Sanjana,” Priya was saying. “It explains so much. And it’s wonderful that Rahul has someone in the family who truly understands.”
“He’s been so much happier since he embraced this, Priya. And you’ve been so good to him,” my mother replied.
Just then, a different set of *jingles* and *swishes* announced a new presence. I turned from the stove, my heart leaping.
Rajesh stood in the doorway, transformed. He wore the royal blue *Banarasi* saree, draped with a gentle elegance. His silver jewelry shimmered, catching the light. His makeup was indeed subtle, but his eyes, enhanced by kohl, held a newfound softness. His *bindi* and *sindoor* completed the look. He wasn’t wearing heels, his feet bare, but his posture was regal. He looked… beautiful. And undeniably happy.
“Rajesh!” Sanjana exclaimed, rising to embrace him. “You look wonderful!”
Priya smiled, her eyes full of warmth. “Welcome, Radha’s father. You look absolutely lovely.”
Rajesh blushed, a faint flush beneath his makeup, but he held his head high. He glanced at me, a silent question in his eyes.
“You’re perfect, Dad,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “Absolutely perfect.”
A shared smile passed between us, a bond forged in silk and sparkle.
The evening was a whirlwind of activity. Rahul and Rajesh, two crossdressing housewives, cooked dinner together, their bangles and anklets chiming in harmony. We served the women, our wives, with meticulous care, refilling their plates, ensuring their comfort. The aroma of spices, the warmth of laughter, and the constant, joyful music of our jewelry filled the dining room. Afterwards, we cleared the table, washed the dishes, and tidied the kitchen, our movements synchronized, a silent understanding passing between father and son.
Over the next few days, the penthouse became a sanctuary of shared identity. Rahul and Rajesh bonded over their common interest, spending hours in my dressing room.
“This drape is tricky,” Rajesh admitted one afternoon, attempting to pleat a particularly stiff silk saree.
“Here, Dad, let me show you,” I said, my bangles clinking as I adjusted the fabric with practiced ease. “It’s all in the tuck and the pleat. You want it neat, but not too tight. And the pallu, it has to fall just so.”
We exchanged tips on makeup application, on blending eyeshadow, on finding the perfect shade of lipstick.
“My skin is a bit drier than yours,” Rajesh confessed, inspecting his reflection. “I find a hydrating primer works wonders before foundation.”
“Oh, definitely,” I agreed. “And for the eyes, a good cream-based concealer for those dark circles. It makes all the difference.”
We discussed jewelry, the weight of a heavy *haar*, the delicate balance of a *nath*.
“These *jhumkas* are exquisite,” Rajesh said, admiring a pair of mine, large and glittering. “But they pull so much.”
“That’s the beauty of it, Dad,” I chuckled. “The weight, the sway. It reminds you of your presence, your femininity.”
While we immersed ourselves in the art of feminine identity, Priya and Sanjana reveled in their roles as queens of the house. They spent their days shopping in the city’s opulent boutiques, returning with bags filled with designer clothes and accessories. Or they would relax in the living room, curled up on plush sofas, reading magazines, or watching movies on the massive flat-screen television. They chatted about their comfortable lives, their laughter echoing through the halls.
“It’s truly a dream, isn’t it, Sanjana?” Priya said one afternoon, her voice laced with contentment. “To have such devoted husbands, who not only work hard but also take such joy in caring for us at home.”
“Indeed, Priya,” Sanjana replied, a serene smile on her face. “My Rajesh has always been a gentle soul, but seeing him like this… so happy, so vibrant. It’s a joy to behold.”
On the final evening, after the last dish was cleaned and the last cushion plumped, Rahul and Rajesh sat on the floor at their wives’ feet. Priya and Sanjana, ensconced in soft throws, their faces glowing with relaxation, chatted idly about their day’s shopping finds.
My hands, adorned with rings and bangles, massaged Priya’s feet, then moved to her calves, working out the last vestiges of tension. The faint *clink-clank* of my jewelry was a soothing rhythm in the quiet room. Rajesh, across from me, was doing the same for Sanjana, his movements gentle, his silver anklets jingling softly.
“Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without him,” Priya sighed, leaning back, her eyes closed. “He makes my life so easy. I come home, and everything is taken care of. It’s like living in a five-star hotel, but with a personal chef and masseuse who also happens to be my loving husband.”
Sanjana chuckled softly. “Precisely. And he enjoys it so much. It’s a win-win, isn’t it?”
Rahul and Rajesh blushed under their heavy makeup, a wave of warmth spreading through us. The rich scent of my jasmine flowers mingled with the faint aroma of face powder and the subtle fragrance of the women’s perfumes. Our sarees, opulent and heavy, rustled softly as we moved. Our jewelry, the countless bangles, the heavy necklaces, the dangling earrings, the tinkling anklets, all of it felt like a second skin, a true expression of our inner selves.
We were happy. Content. Two crossdressing housewives, devoted to our queens, finding immense joy and fulfillment in our roles. The setting sun cast a golden glow through the panoramic windows, illuminating our opulent penthouse, our comfortable lives, and our unique, beautiful family. My heart swelled, a silent hum of pure, unadulterated bliss.